Giving Up
by PeppermintToothpaste
Summary: Simon's reflections on the woes of the world as he dies on the island. Character death.


A/N: Hello! This is my first piece of fanfiction; I'm practicing my writing over summer vacation :]

Warning: Character death.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies or any of the characters; all belong to William Golding.

* * *

><p><strong>"Giving Up"<strong>

PeppermintToothpaste

There was an unnatural silence to the hot humid air surrounding the island; even the ocean's quiet breath was stifled. The vibrantly colored birds so often seen fluttering and cawing among the fruit trees were nowhere to be found. Not a breeze stirred the air, and patiently, the sun slowly sank into the watery abode of the sea, casting the last weak rays of sunshine out toward the darkening atmosphere. It was twilight, the time of day when the skies were the most beautiful, when the wonders of earth turned black and blended with the shadows, highlighting the subtle dark hues of the heavens. All was quiet, still, unmoving, save for the small, dark figure of a boy rapidly tumbling down a steep hillside.

Simon gasped for breath, his arms and legs burning from the exertion of his movements. He strained to brake and slow down, but his feet continued moving, struggling to find balance on the precipitous terrain of the island. The exposed areas of his skin stung from minute scratches, courtesy of the wild jungle undergrowth, and stinging with pain every time his sweat trickled into the open wounds. The stuffy, spoiled air stuck to his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead, doing nothing to help manage his pounding head and heart. He was virtually blind; the sun had all but disappeared, leaving everything an inky black. _I have to tell the others…I have to warn them, before it's too late…_With these words, Simon pushed himself even harder, for time was running out.

Unbeknownst to him, gray, ominous clouds were gathering and congregating, steadily marching toward the tropical paradise. In its wake came a cool refreshing blast of wind, slowly gaining strength as it approached. A violent thunderstorm was impending and this was why no life could be found; every motile animal and beast had found refuge under the great trees of the forest, which were impermeable to the rages of Mother Nature.

Down by the beachside, a small group of boys formed a circle. Some of them seemed to be arguing, and then, suddenly, they merged into one. The tension that lingered in the air suddenly dissipated into power-consuming lust. The imminent storm loomed overhead, and the shadow that was Simon clambered through the forest, on ground that was now level and turning sandy under his bare feet. It was inevitable that storm, boys, and Simon were about to collide, but there was no hint to which one would emerge as a survivor.

Simon stumbled out just as the first clap of thunder sounded. All of a sudden, everything was soaked. This rain came out in great sheets, splattering the sand and it seemed as if there was no difference between ocean and sky, earth and air. Echoes of a chant could be heard faintly over the drumroll of the downpour: _Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!_

* * *

><p>Simon was disoriented. All around him were flailing arms, legs, and spears. The chants continued, the sounds circling mockingly over his head.<p>

_Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! _Surrounded. No way out. Trapped.

_Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! _He was numb with wet and cold, losing feeling, losing control. But he had to tell them! There was no Beastie, it was a dead parachutist, an adult, a sign of rescue and reassurance, there was no more need for fear…

_Kill beast! Cut throat! Spill blood! _A sharp twinge near his ribs startled him out of his trance. As he turned to look, his entire body exploded with pain. Spears, fists, feet, rocks were all burying themselves into his skin. He collapsed into the sand, his yells and screams of pain muffled by a mouthful of gritty sand. There was no end to the agony. He felt the rough wood of primitively fashioned spears repeatedly pierce his body, splintering into his flesh... the blood flowed freely, first from the cuts and lacerations, then from his mouth as internal organs were damaged. Bones cracked as careless feet trampled his limbs; he was kicked, pummeled, punched, and pounced on by the madly circling group of boys.

_Kill beast! Cut throat! Spill blood! _The Lord of the Flies. Human's deepest, darkest nature. Everyone possessed it, some knew how to wield its power. Was this why the adults were fighting? Building fighting machines, killing each other, brutal murder… He understood the nature of the force buried deep within one's soul. It scared him, the potential that any one human could have ultimate control over others, over the world, over the universe. It was a fight for survival, the primordial instinct to continue breathing, battling for life.

_Kill! Cut! Spill! _Why does this power prevail? Wasn't it always good over evil? Was it that hard to fight chaos? Why was it that the thousands of years spent building the towers of civilization could be broken down and destroyed in a matter of hours? Entropy seemed to be an adequate answer. Simon vaguely remembered hearing the term in a physics class back at home— the concept that nature tends to move from order to disorder.

Language and communication fell apart into short, monosyllabic words. The beats of the dance pounded through Simon's internal being— it was irresistible, this influence. It wasn't difficult to lose one's mind. Why then, did humankind continue to fight, even when everything spontaneously fell apart? Wouldn't it just be easier to give up? The world seemed to be turning black; it hurt to breathe, he couldn't get enough air to his lungs, and everything seemed to spin and whirl. Through the haze of pain, Simon glimpsed the bloodlust-filled eyes of Piggy, Ralph, and Samneric for one last time. There was no reason to retaliate when even young English schoolboys were resorting to savagery, regressing back into the prehistoric. It was so easy just to stop, just the end the pain, just to give up, just to…stop breathing.

_Inhale..._

_Exhale..._

_Inhale..._

_Exhale..._

* * *

><p><em>Kill! Cut! Spill! <em>The rain continued to lessen as the clouds gradually parted. Far, far overhead, an indistinguishable figure floated towards the heavens. To the unaided eye, it was a blob, a stain among the stars. To an unknowing onlooker with binoculars, the figure was a dead parachuter, killed in the atomic war raging overhead. And to the young boys trapped on the tropical island, it was the Beastie, a figment of their imagination turned to reality. And finally, to the dead boy on the beach, the figure represented despair—there was no hope of rescue, because humankind itself needed help. Lying face down, head buried in the soft sand, Simon's unmoving body was gently pummeled by the waves, apathetic to the world around him. The harsh, white light of the moon turned his skin into marble as his scarlet blood trickled irresolutely from his stab wounds, absorbed by the sand. And as the pillars of civilization collapsed around him, Simon lay oblivious to it, as remote and distant as the moon above him.

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you enjoyed it! Please Read&Review!

Sincerely,

PeppermintToothpaste

July 01, 2011


End file.
